


That Time of Year

by Sugarmouse



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Other, Pumpkins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 02:58:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8186770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sugarmouse/pseuds/Sugarmouse
Summary: The infamous pumpkin fic...now on AO3!





	

**Author's Note:**

> This was posted to tumblr last year [here](http://sugarmaus.tumblr.com/post/132107734670/imim-sorry-this-ones-for-you-babychrist). Now it's October again and it's on AO3. Originally written for [Jodi](https://twitter.com/GalenErso).
> 
> Not betaed but who could bring themselves to.
> 
> I don't know why I do these things.

Hannibal loves this time of year. The world seems fragile and all the more beautiful for the fallen leaves, trees bare and weather cold enough to really start to feel it. Hannibal enjoys cooking this season, local produce and freshly butchered meats to make the finest of meals.

He enjoys the challenge of creating new recipes with ingredients he doesn’t have all year round and while the pumpkins are so large and a struggle to move from his car to his kitchen, he manages it in one trip.

Hannibal regards them as he ties his apron around his waist and carefully and neatly folds each shirt sleeve. There are plenty of recipes, reliable recipes, to be made. He wonders if he could pair the flesh with the other flesh in his fridge. Perhaps something savoury, but perhaps again, something sweet.

He swiftly runs his knife along the honing steel, swift and confident in his movements. He eyes the first pumpkin and debates the best way to slice the firm orange skin.

The first slice is simple, sliding along the pumpkin rib and he makes short work of taking the thing apart, cutting into portions for each taste he plans on creating. There’s more flesh than he thought, there always is and he cleans the mess quickly and surveys the carefully portioned chunks.

He doesn’t really need the second pumpkin and he’d perhaps be sick of it once he’s created pasta dishes and pies to his heart’s content. He cleans the mess from the first pumpkin, placing each portion of the flesh in bags for later and wiping the slimy guts from where they seem to have gotten everywhere on the countertop.

The texture is odd and he rubs the slippery fibrous strands in his fingers as he takes the handful of their mess to the bin. They cling to his fingers and he finds himself with both hands messy as he tries to scrape the pieces from his skin. He rinses his hands in the sink quickly and can’t help but try to find some comparison between the pumpkin’s guts and some other substance.

He’s cooked with so many things before but pumpkins are an annual tradition and this year he might have someone special to feed his creations to. He thinks of feeding Will an entire menu of pumpkin based treats and he finds himself running his hands over the skin of the second intact pumpkin, picturing Will swallowing down a meal of pumpkin served with a very special kind of pork.

The pumpkin is firm, smooth skin with small patches of roughness, points during it’s growth where something has happened to mark it. There is a slight dent at one point and Hannibal finds himself run his finger along and around it absent mindedly.

He’s not sure why he picked up the knife but he has a desire to open the pumpkin up and run his hands through it’s insides. He’s never been one to deny himself any pleasures he’s sought and why should this be any different? He hesitates for a moment this time, perhaps a small hole instead?

Thinking more practically, more in the scope of simple satisfaction and enjoyment, Hannibal leans heavily on the blade, slicing into the pumpkin once, twice. He separates out the halves, pulling slimy strings and seeds apart. He marvels at the colour, the way the contents wetly glisten and while he is familiar enough with human entrails to know how very different they are, he still finds some odd point of comparison in his mind.

He picks up a string from the mess, sliding through his fingers and impossible to grip. He can’t pull it free and he reaches again, scooping with fingers and feeling the way the strands wetly squeeze through his fingers with a rather satisfying squelching sound.

He feels the scrape of the seeds and the wet press of the fibrous guts and it all feels so sickly sensual.

The kitchen has always been a place of passion and desire for Hannibal. He wants something, he takes it, he has it and he does not think about what he wants now, he only takes. He unties his apron and opens his flies and pulls the pumpkin half to the edge of the countertop all so close together he can scarcely tell the order of things.

The flesh hadn’t felt cold on his hands, not warm but not cold and yet when he presses it against his dick, it feels freezing. He shudders and it scrapes and it’s uncomfortable. He doesn’t overthink, he can’t at this stage and he uses his hand to pull the guts loose, to surround his cock as much as he can and he presses forward with his hips, pulling the pumpkin half closer with one hand and cupping the slimy guts around his cock with the other.

He moves awkwardly but he’s too caught up right now to think too much about the movement, about the feeling of what he’s doing right now. He feels it build and he doesn’t fantasise, doesn’t picture Will as he’s been wont to do of late. He focuses on the slide and the scrape and the burning discomfort in his lower back from his position and he gets as close to the edge as he can bear before slowing.

He almost wants to hold off but he wants to come and he is not one to deny himself what he truly wants. He’s coming and he’s ruining the pumpkin for anything but this but he can’t care, can’t think of anything but the sensation.

He breathes hard and shudders, pulling free and looking down at the strands clinging to him, sticking to skin and trailing down his front. He looks at the leg of his trousers and the orange mark that’s running from his thigh downwards. He runs his fingers through his hair before remembering the state of his hands, covered in juice and pumpkin guts and he sighs.

He should clean up, should make himself presentable. He stands and hesitates and he doesn’t get himself together too quickly. He thinks about Will coming by later and looks at the pumpkin half, wet and messy and covered in come and he smiles. He turns to the bags of freshly prepared pumpkin flesh from the first and picks them up in his arms, carries them to the bin and drops them in. The second pumpkin will make a much better meal for his Will.

**Author's Note:**

> You can contact me on tumblr at [sugarmaus](http://sugarmaus.tumblr.com) and on twitter [@ThisMouse](https://twitter.com/ThisMouse).


End file.
